


Mortality

by Eloarei



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Family Drama, Future Fic, Gen, Implied Character Death, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloarei/pseuds/Eloarei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of his father's life, Veser has to choose what sort of man he means to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't until later that I realized I originally posted this on Father's Day, which ended up being quite ironic. I suppose maybe it was my subconscious way of telling my dad I sort of miss him, and maybe... forgive him.

Looking down on the man's sickly, emaciated form, Veser felt a sense of pity. _'Look what your life has come to,'_ he thought. _'Laying half-dead in a cold white hospital room, and nobody to blame but yourself.'_

It had been years since he'd talked to the man, probably three or four, and even then they hadn't spoken long, just enough for Veser to coerce a few pictures of his mother from his dad's possessive, still-grief-stricken hand. Fourteen years, and still Mr. Hatch refused to let go. He wouldn't believe, even after years of hatred, that his wife had finally left him. 

_'It's your own damn fault,'_ Veser thought bitterly, averting his eyes from his father's face. _'Maybe if you weren't such a dick, you wouldn't have had to spend the end of your life all alone. Maybe if you didn't drink so much...'_

Memories of his childhood swarmed in on him, all the years of being told he was worthless, his father's physical and emotional abuse, his mother's cold eyes because all she saw was the son of the man who imprisoned her. He remembered his teenage years, shunned by his peers because of his fucked-up genes and dysfunctional, defensive personality, not a friend in the world but his goddamn lovelorn god-father who eventually got himself killed because of the woman who simultaneously made and ruined his life. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought Veser out of his whirlwind of memories. He turned his head to find Ples standing in the doorway of the little room, holding a cup of some hot brown liquid. 

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “I thought perhaps you could use it.” 

Veser smiled softly in thanks as he took the cup, but shook his head. “I don't really plan on being here long.” 

Ples edged quietly into the tiny room, moving carefully so as not to wake the sleeping man. He took a seat in the chair beside Veser's and gave the younger man a gentle but very serious look. “I know... that your life with him was very difficult, but he's your father.” He turned his head to the dying man and studied his face as he spoke. “He's your only family. Even if things were rough before, I'm sure he still loves you.” Ples moved a hand to Veser's shoulder and gave it a quick, confident squeeze. “He would probably want you here.” 

Instinctively, Veser doubted that his father cared a bit for him, a theory supported by his childhood trauma, but when he thought back to the past 17 years, he realized it wasn't true. The man had remained unpleasant, taking every opportunity to ridicule or belittle Veser and his companions, but he'd practically begged to be in his son's presence. The years had worn on and the two saw less and less of each other as Veser grew into his own life, but every time they spoke, Mr. Hatch's voice held the slightest pleading tone, masked so well by his callous words until one looked back after the ire had faded.

“He should have done a better job of showing it,” Veser responded, his voice just a little tight for his liking. “His fault for being such an asshole all the--” 

An alarm going off startled Veser from finishing his speech. The complex machine hooked up to the bedridden man had begun to chirp loudly, causing a frazzled-looking nurse to bustle in and flip the 'off' switch before leaving just as quickly, without even a nod of acknowledgment in between. 

“I spoke with the doctor earlier,” Ples mentioned when Veser didn't attempt to finish speaking. “She... doesn't think your father will hold on much past tonight.” 

Veser's eyes drifted down to the arm of his evening-blue sport coat (he'd been called to the hospital so suddenly, he hadn't had time to head home and don something more natural) and he picked absently at a speck of fuzz. “His fault...” he murmured, begging his voice to remain steady. “He should've told me if he was sick.” He rose from his chair and went to stand at the man's bedside, glaring softly at his sleeping face. 

“You were always such a bastard,” he said to his father, the words more breath than voice. “Did you hate me so much you couldn't even ask for help? You knew I had the money.” He sighed and reached a hand out, jerking back in self-doubt but settling it finally on his father's brow. It was cool to the touch, wrinkled with age and pain, not all that unlike Ples' after a long day. 

Veser was thirty-six this year, and his next birthday would find him the same age Ples was when the two had met. Likewise, Ples was aging just the same. Too soon, he would be the age of the bedridden man now, too soon he would be fading quietly into death. And then it would be Veser's turn; the once-young man would become old when it was his turn, would succumb to the call of the afterlife, and some other young human would be next in line to fall to their fate of mortality.

“You know you were mortal,” Veser whispered. “Was this how you wanted it to go?” He stroked his thumb over his father's forehead and drew slowly away. “Well it's not how _I'm_ going to go,” he declared, raising his voice back to a normal level. “So, I'll forgive you. Regrets make you old, and I can't afford that kind of thing yet.” He turned his back on the man's sleeping form and took a step towards the door before adding, as if in an afterthought, “Thanks for... everything.” And then he walked briskly from the room, not daring to turn back. 

Ples waited a moment, reflecting on the younger Hatch's choice of goodbyes, before standing and facing the dying older Hatch. He folded his arms respectfully in front of him and nodded at the unconscious man as if he could see the gesture. “I thank you as well,” he said softly, “and bid you a goodnight. Your true judgment begins when you awake. Let us hope Veser was not too kind in his.” 

With another nod, he turned and left, politely ignoring the nurse who pushed past him into the room and her frantic cries when the flatline beep invaded the hall and drowned out the resolute footsteps of a man who knew mortality all too well.


End file.
